


I want honey on my table

by sammyatstanford



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Also a brief moment of voyeurism, Guilty Dean, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Fixation, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 06:31:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6790714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammyatstanford/pseuds/sammyatstanford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has an oral fixation. Dean has a Sam fixation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I want honey on my table

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saltandbyrne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandbyrne/gifts).



> Written for Salt, who for reasons I still cannot comprehend, bid on me in the Fanworks Auction to raise money for this fandom's beloved nyxocity (who is still going through a difficult time right now and can always use more support!). 
> 
> As a warning, Sam is intended to be 14 here, although his age is not explicitly mentioned.

Sam’s in a hand-me-down shirt, Dad’s or Dean’s or both, it’s impossible to tell. Dean will never (ever) admit it out loud, but he knows he can be a sentimental fuck when it comes to his baby brother. Hell, he’d kept every one of Sam’s baby teeth, tiny milkwhite pearls in a lifesavers tube for years before Dad accidentally tossed them thinking they were junk. Still, one flannel shirt in this family is the same as another, even when it’s sitting just too big over Sam’s narrowbroad shoulders, open in the front to show a concave little divot where baby boy belly fat has been melting away, dragging down over his hips to brush around mid-thigh. Sam’s always liked that, too big big brother shirt hanging tail out the back of his hoodie, which hangs out the back of his too short Salvation Army jacket. He’s in a pair of socks, one hole poked at the toe and one worn at the heel, which he damn well better not let Dad see, not with that Vietnam-bred mentality about clean, dry socks even when everything else they wear is washed sheer and threading to pieces. But Sam likes to cling, to anything he’s ever touched, to anything that’s ever been _Sam’s_.

He’s in that open shirt and socks and busted elastic tighty whities, sagging at the waist, with a sugarmilk spoon thinning his lips. It’s been in there a while and Dean can only imagine the things that pink tongue is probably doing. Dean’s own mouth feels dry and sticky, something heavy in his throat.

When Sam was teething and they didn’t have anything fancy like those refrigerated rings you can buy at the store, Dean would soak a washcloth in ice water and press that to Sam’s sore baby gums, until the stretch of terrycloth in that tiny mouth got to be too much and so Dean would soak his fingers instead, stick them in the water bath until they were brilliant red and painfully numb, and then stroke them over the slippery insides of Sam’s mouth until his brother’s crying was soothed.

He doesn’t know if that’s what started it, or if it was the subsequent years when Sam couldn’t sleep, didn’t ever seem satisfied with the comfort of his own thumb to suck but wanted Dean’s instead, and it was easier when Dean was seveneightnine to let it happen than to try and fight it, let his toddler brother fall into a doze with Dean’s thumb going pruney in the warm cavern of his mouth until Dean could safely extract it from between Sam’s teeth and turn away for some shuteye of his own. Or maybe it was the way the pair of them always managed to snag an extra lollipop from the ladies behind the desk at every bank, grocery store, or urgent care clinic from here to the Yukon, big bright eyes in too small bodies tucked away in faded thrift store clothes, so they’d have four suckers between them and somehow Sam always ended up with three.

Maybe it was none of those things. Maybe it was all of them. Maybe Sam was born with a grasping, hungry mouth and maybe Dean was born to watch it. Whatever the cause, Dean maybe regrets now that it exists at all. Regrets the amount of time he spends thinking about that empty mouth and how to fill it. How to feed it.

He shifts uncomfortably where he’s sitting next to Sam on the threadbare pullout sofa with mattress springs he can feel in his ass, half a cushion or so of no man’s land between them, Sam’s feet tucked up next to him. Dean can see the bone bumps of Sam’s skinny ankles under greyish-white cotton. He knows so much about the skeleton under Sam’s skin.

Dean is a mess.

He clears his throat like there’s something stuck in it besides his own choking desperation and Sam casts a side-eyed glance in his direction. But all Dean can see is the flex of muscle in Sam’s cheek as the pink tongue in that mouth works over the spoon tucked away inside it. He feels hot, everywhere. He doesn’t want to notice those things about his baby brother, can’t seem to stop noticing them more and more with every willowed inch Sam grows. He feels sick, all the time. He feels unhinged.

If Sam is a tree, then his roots snake down through Dean’s chest cavity, taking everything Dean has to give and offering Dean only the privilege of looking up at his branches.

Finally, Sam drags the spoon out of his mouth, lets it clatter into the empty cereal bowl on his knee. He sets that on the cushion between them, untucks his legs and puts his feet on the floor. “I’m gonna go take a nap,” he says, and Dean makes a noncommittal hum, afraid of what will sneak out if he pries open his teeth. He tells himself to look back at the TV, but follows the swing of Sam’s legs down the hall, all the way until he disappears.

His eyes catch on Sam’s left-behind bowl, empty except for a few flake crumbs at the bottom, too small to catch with a spoon or swallow with the milk. The spoon rests inside it, carelessly teasing, any spitshine left behind by Sam’s mouth invisible with the way the metal gleams dully anyway.

Dean cautiously casts his eyes back up to the hallway, drops them back down to the bowl. He reaches out a careful hand, clutches the spoon with an unsteady grip, holds it close in to his chest, so tight his hand is sweating. He drags one thumb down the gleaming back, the curve of it firm beneath his touch. The skin comes away faintly damp, and Dean’s breath hitches in his chest.

He realizes, abruptly, that he’s hard enough in his shorts to feel the painful press of the zipper.

He drops the spoon like it’s electrocuted him, and it bounces off his knee and onto the floor.

_Fuck fuck fuck._

This is fine. Dean is fine. He just needs to...calm down. Cool down. Take advantage of this time to himself to relax, remember himself and everything he has, everything he has to lose. He drags himself up off the couch and down the hall. The bathroom’s inside the only bedroom in the place, but he’ll sneak through quiet so Sam doesn’t wake up, and take a shower. Let everything he doesn’t want to carry wash away down the drain.

The flaking faux-metal doorknob twists under the pressure of his wrist, and he eases the door open oh so carefully so that Sam doesn’t hear him.

And Sam doesn’t hear him, because Sam’s spread out on the bed, overlarge shirt slipped down around his shoulders and underwear down around his shins, knees flopped diamond wide and a hand wrapped around his sweet little dick. Dean stops with the door bare inches open, just like his heart has stopped beating in his chest. It comes back doubletime, the pulse of it throbbing in his ears and way down at the hot core center of him, cock twitching in his jeans. He can’t move, can’t feel the shame that’s bubbling thick under the surface because he hasn’t even let himself _think_ about this, about what Sam would look like spread out over dingy sheets, eyes closed and back propped up against the headboard, fingers playing at his own lips, flush pink tongue and Crest white teeth teasing all at the tips of them. The hand on his just-too-much-for-a-handful cock teasing too, squeezing and stroking even and slow and then backing off to swirl just a thumb at the head, drag it down along the vein. Dean’s hand slips sweaty off the doorknob and the door swings open wide, smooth on silent hinges, a curtain opening wide on the peep show Dean hasn’t paid admission to see.

Dean should leave. Dean should _run_. Dean should steal a car and drive until ten state lines are between him and his baby brother so that Dean can never hurt his Sammy the way he longs to, but Dean is frozen. Not a deer in headlights because Dean’s stared his own death in the face and never locked up, but something bad, something predatory, still and silent in observation of its prey. The heave of Sam’s chest and the heatpink of his cheeks and the needy sigh of his mouth as he tries to be quiet, tries not to disturb the older brother who’s supposed to be watching cable TV and not live baby brother pornography. Sam can’t hold back a whimper, though, when he stops toying and slips his pinky and ring fingers in past the seam of his lips, all the way down the back of his tongue until his lips feather at the webbing.

That whimper’s not loud enough, though, to cover up the groan that claws its way out of Dean’s chest at the sight of it, Sam jerking himself off with his own fingers on his tonsils. Dean never let himself imagine but always always knew, knew Sammy would need to fill that hungry mouth as he jerked that pretty cock.

Dean digs his nails into the meat of his hands as Sam’s eyes blink rapidly open, lock with Dean’s across the six feet of carpet between them, face a pretty picture of surprise and those goddamn fingers still in his mouth.

“Dean?” he breathes around them, clumsy, and something takes over. Dean is a man possessed, must be, must have a demon lodged up right alongside his already-damned soul, because he’s crossing those six yawning paces on socked feet, knee-walking on the mattress until he’s close enough to see the sweat on Sam’s forehead, the wispy pieces of hair curling up from the humidity of Sam’s self-made sex. The air around him is salt-edged and bitter, and Dean can taste it on the back of his tongue.

“Don’t stop,” Dean says, instead of _sorry_ , instead of _get away from me as fast as you can because I’m a monster, can’t you see it._ “Keep—,” his voice is broken and he swallows, thick. “Keep going.”

And Sam, his Sam, his sweet little Sammy who is never obedient when it’s not life-or-death—Sam does. Dean can’t tear his eyes away from Sam’s gaze, all wide and wet and tentative, but he can see the jerky rise and fall of Sam’s shoulder in his peripheral vision, and when Sam’s eyes blink slow and then fall closed in embarrassment, or maybe at the sensation of his own touch, Dean’s free to drag his eyes down the too-tempting line of Sam’s body the way he can’t drag his hands. Sammy’s little nipples are dark, would shift from blushbrown to rosered under the attention of Dean’s fingers, Dean knows it, and the curved little bowl of his tummy is heaving, lean muscle so visible underneath and jumping with the unevenness of his breath. God he’s beautiful, a vision with thin wrists and thinner knees, spread so wide now that one of them is bumping into Dean’s leg where he’s kneeling on the mattress, a little nuclear point of contact that has Dean’s whole body humming. Those little boy fingers, stretching longer and leaner every day, are gaming at the passion pink head of Sam’s cock, and Dean knows now what it feels like to have a hungry mouth, is drooling at the thought of everything Sam would taste like and feel like against his soft palette.

He forces his eyes away before he gives into the dizzy urge to fall into it, to put his mouth where his mind is, taste sweat and adolescent boy and the bittersweet wetness slicking that cock up so nicely. Sam’s eyes are open again, on Dean like a touch and flicking down again and again to what Dean realizes is the waist of his jeans, the buried alive bulge behind the placket of his zipper, straining and desperate for release.

Fingers slip wet from between Sam’s lips, leave a smear of saliva down his chin that makes Dean shudder uselessly. “Dean,” Sam says, whimpers really. “You—you—.” He can’t seem to finish the request, but his eyes are a signpost and Dean can be obedient, too. He needs two hands to pry open the button of his jeans with the way his dick’s trying to bust a seam, and he can’t stop the helpless noise he makes when he finally lets it free. Doesn’t even bother getting his pants down, just lets them fall loose, caught halfway down on the curve of his ass, untucks his cock from the elastic of his shorts and just holds it, feels the throb of blood from the pulse in his groin and tries not to blow his load.

Sam makes a little noise, something faint and maybe intimidated or maybe wanting, but that’s probably Dean’s wishful thinking. “Dean,” his little brother breathes again, and the hand that had stopped moving on his little brother’s dick jerkily picks up the motion, so Dean follows along, slides an easy grip around his own cock because anything more is gonna tip him right over the edge. It’s too much, Sam spread out like a gift in front of him, a cornucopia of sweet and dirty teenaged sex, and Dean’s barely hanging on.

Those spitwet fingers are toying at the split of Sam’s lips again, and Dean feels a hot surge of jealousy that burns him up even more inside, until he’s probably incinerating all of his internal organs but he really doesn’t care, knows somewhere deep down and true that he has to die after this anyway. The hand he reaches out isn’t even shaking, gun grip steady when he drags the back of his fingers down the baby smooth skin of Sam’s cheek, lets the tip of his index finger graze over the place where a dimple digs in when Sam smiles before he touches his thumb to the pillowpress of Sammy’s bottom lip.

Sam whines, eyes big and begging, whole body shifting on the mattress like he doesn’t even know what to do with himself.

“So pretty, Sammy,” Dean says because he can’t seem to stop himself from anything here, id running the show and superego banging plaintively on a door that’s firmly locked inside Dean’s brain—what’s happening now and all the things before and after it firmly separated by aching _want_ , by knowing that in this moment Dean’s gonna take what he wants and fuck the consequences.

Dean’s hand on his own cock has gone still and forgotten with everything that’s suddenly available to him, now that he’s reached out and actually _touched_ , broken that barrier between them. The pressure of Dean’s thumb has forced a gap between Sam’s sweetly pink lips, the barely uneven line of Sam’s incisors visible in redwet darkness, and Sam’s tongue slips out, touches at the line of Dean’s thumb nail, then drags along it, damp and indecent.

“So hungry for it, baby,” Dean groans, presses just the tip of his thumb right into the line of those peekaboo teeth and he can feel the rumble of Sam’s reciprocal groan in the fingers he has spanned across Sam’s cheek, can feel the heated blush his words have caused spreading out under his touch and goddamn if that’s not just the finest thing.

He dips just the tip of his thumb past Sam’s lips, feels wicked and powerful with the way Sam’s head lifts to chase it when he pulls it back out just as quickly. “You want it?” Dean asks. Sam seems frozen, blushing warm, and Dean presses. “You wanna suck on my fingers, Sammy?” And this time, Sam goes hot red but whispers, “Yes.” And maybe Dean could make him beg for it but he’s already fucking up so bad here so he’s not gonna risk it, gonna take what he’s been given and be grateful for his sins.

He drags his hand back up Sam’s cheek again, catches it into Sam’s hair, tugs until Sam moans and tilts his head back, exposes the softlean lines of his throat and what Dean wouldn’t give to put his mouth there, but no, he can’t, he’ll give Sam what he’s asked for and not let himself take a single thing more because this is so much already. He presses himself in closer, Sam a line of sweat and heat against him, takes the other hand off his dick and presses two of those fingers at the needy part of Sam’s mouth. Sam opens up for him immediately, eyes straining to keep watching Dean’s face from the angle that Dean’s forced his head into, and Dean finally, _finally_ slips blunt fingers into the place that’s haunted him since he knew what a wet dream was.

They sigh together at the feel of it, Sam’s eyes rolling up and closed as Dean’s fingers slide in deeper, pressing down and back along Sam’s tongue, all the way down til the webbing touches stretchedsoft lips. God, his Sammy is just soft everywhere for him, and Dean shivers all the way down his spine.

Sam’s tongue is jumping under his fingers, wanting, and Dean draws his fingers back out far enough that Sam can twist that tricky muscle up between them, lave dickmusk and salt off the skin, corners of his mouth clinging obscenely around the bulge of Dean’s knuckles so that Dean can’t help but fuck his hand in and out, just a little bit.

Dean’s whole body shifts suddenly, and he glances down, realizes Sam’s picked back up on stripping his cock furiously, knocking into Dean’s leg with the jerking of his shoulder. “Fuck yes,” he growls, “god yes, Sammy, get yourself off for me, just like that, fuck." Sam sucks, harsh, at Dean’s fingers in his mouth, and Dean tugs sharper on the hair in his fist as Sam whines and digs his teeth into the bone of Dean’s knuckles and comes over his hand, so hard that a splash of it reaches the back of Dean’s wrist, the rest of it spreading wet and messy, barely white and all over Sam’s chest and stomach.

It takes a lot out of the kid, and he collapses boneless against the headboard, the suck of his mouth going languid and content on Dean’s bruised fingers, wetness at the corner of his eyelashes and god, goddamn, he’s so pretty, so easy and open like this, and Dean doesn’t want to let go but needs to, unknots the hand all tangled up in the shampoo softness of Sammy’s hair so he can drag it through the come smeared on Sam’s little boy belly, wrap it around the frantic throb of his own cock. It takes next to nothing, not with his fingers achingly tender and still buried in the sucking warmth of Sam’s sweet little mouth and petting now over the ridges behind Sam’s teeth and even down to the squishy softness beside Sam’s tongue. Not with the beautiful display his baby brother just put on for him. He strips himself a handful of times and comes spectacularly, soaring and insensate to everything but the hurt little noises Sammy makes as Dean’s come splashes down hot onto his skin.

Dean comes back to himself unevenly. He’s shaking, full bodied, so hard that he’s surprised he hasn’t collapsed, and when it comes back online, his mind is trembling and terrified, recoiling from everything that he just did. _It doesn’t count_ , he thinks, promises, begs. They hadn’t—he hadn’t actually _touched_ , hadn’t let Sam _—_ so _it doesn’t count_ except he’s staring at his own jizz spattering the inside of Sam’s elbow, and his fingers go cool in the air when he slips them unsteadily from Sam’s mouth and Dean is going to burn for this. There is no redemption, not for him. He’s gonna burn from this moment forward, every time Sam’s eyes touch him, and all the way into eternity.

“Dean,” Sam says, soft, like he doesn’t know what to say at all.

_Doesn’t count, doesn’t count._

“Dean, are you freaking out?”

He seems to have lost the ability for words, simply stares at his little brother instead.

Sam shifts slightly towards him on the mattress, puts out a careful hand but drops it before it can connect. “Please don’t freak out,” he continues, so quiet it’s almost inaudible over the panicked rush of Dean’s pulse. “Because if you freak out then it means that...it means that something’s wrong with me.”

“Wr-wrong with _you_?” Dean manages to stammer out. “Sammy, I’m the one who—who—”

“But I liked it,” Sam says, teeth dug down into the reddened swell of his lower lip. Then, eyes cast down, barely a whisper: “I wanted it.”

“Oh,” Dean says, dumbly. He mechanically fumbles his dick back into his pants, sits fully down onto the mattress with a creak of bedsprings.

He looks at Sam. Sam watches him, worry lines across his forehead. The air conditioning clicks over in the silence, the house breathing around them.

“You wanted it?” Dean asks carefully, needs the confirmation again because somehow, that makes it better. It’s wrong, no doubt, can’t ever talk his way out of that one because you don’t just lay pervert hands on your baby brother’s skin and call it good, but maybe this could make it _less_ wrong. Maybe this makes it forgivable to the only person whose forgiveness Dean can’t live without. If Sam can absolve him then Dean can keep breathing, even if they never ever think or speak about this again.

Sam doesn’t answer, but then there’s pressure at Dean’s wrist, Sam’s fingers hooked around his metacarpals, drawing Dean’s hand in, flattening along his palm to press two fingers forward, sticky with fast-drying come, and Sam’s eyelashes flutter closed as he slips them back into the cradle of his mouth. Dean shudders at the heat, the roughwet stroke of tongue on his fingerpads. The guiding pressure of Sam’s hand falls away, and his eyes slit open again.

_Your move._

Dean lets his fingers slide in deeper.

**Author's Note:**

> Just wanted to take a moment to say what an honor it was to write for Salt, who has long been one of my very most favorite authors in this fandom. Thank you for bidding on me, and for giving me a few ideas of where to take your fic, even if I didn't end up using most of them! I'm afraid this ended up less sweet and sad and more dirty, but I hope it was an enjoyable read!
> 
> Thanks to Kara, for being encouraging, and to nerdygeekypastrychef on Tumblr for the quick beta!


End file.
